


A Study In Women

by leavinghope



Series: A Study In Women [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 05:11:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leavinghope/pseuds/leavinghope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A post-Reichenbach series of connected stories featuring the women of <i>Sherlock</i> and Arthur Conan Doyle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Sister

**Author's Note:**

> My goal was to explore the post-Reichenbach experience of John Watson through scenes featuring the women of _Sherlock_ and ACD. This work does not pass the Bechdel test, but I still wanted to highlight the women of the series. It's my first bit of fan fiction in a decade. I hope you enjoy it.

**Outgoing Messages**

You’re not picking up the phone.  Please pick up your phone.

I saw it on the telly.  I’m so sorry.  Please pick up the phone.

Or at least text, please.

John, I’m worried about you.  Please let me know you’re alright.

***

I understand you need to be alone right now.  I’m here to help you, if you need me.

I haven’t had a drink, I promise.  I’m trying, John.

Love you.

***

Of course, you can stay with me for awhile.

Would you like me to go to the service with you?

Okay, I’m glad you’ll be with Mrs. Hudson.

***

You did fine, John. 

You weren’t too flowery or sentimental.  He’d be grateful.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry.

You’ll be home later?

***

About this morning, sorry.  Guess I got up on the wrong side of the bed. 

Brothers and sisters just aren’t meant to live together at this age.

And thanks for the coffee.

It was just one glass of red, I swear.

***

That’s great!  Text me your new address.

***

Saw the news.  Glad you’re in the clear.

***

Six months already.

Time to let go.

Hugs.

***

No statement about Moriarty?  Was he real or not?

Of course, sorry.

I know Sherlock wasn’t a fake. I know.

***

A party?  It’s about damned time!

Have one (or two) for me!

***

Maybe you’ll get a second date without that cock-blocker around.

Sorry, sorry.  But I bet you cracked a smile, didn’t ya, Johnny?

;)

***

Second date!

***

Whoa, third date?  How many years has it been?  ;)

***

She’s fantastic.  Thanks for dinner!

Somehow I imagined that she’d be taller.  Pale.  Dark curly hair.

JUST KIDDING.

He was a gorgeous git, though, wasn’t he?

I KNEW IT!  ;)

***

That’s pretty quick, isn’t it?

Are you sure you’re ready?   It’s only been two years.

I KNOW you weren’t a couple.  That doesn’t mean you didn’t love him.

Fine, fine, I’ll stop.

Oh, and I am happy for you.  Really.

***

Hope you liked the housewarming gift!

I should get you to set me up with that pretty Molly.  ;)

She’s dating HIM!?!?  That’s even weirder than her pining for Sherlock.

That’s an image I can’t un-see.  Thanks alot!  :P

***

Clara says hi.  !!!!!!!

Don’t know, but it was good to see her again.  I miss her.

***

Could you come over?  It’s urgent. 

No, I’m not drunk.  Haven’t had a drink in a few weeks.  Just scared.

***

Saw him again.

If Holmes’ people are supposed to be so good, why are they so easy to spot?

Oh.  Sorry.  Meet up soon?

***

I’ve decided to take a holiday.  Clara is coming with me.

Yeah, maybe it’ll work this time.  Wish us luck!

Why do you want to know where?

As long as Clara doesn’t see him.  I don’t want her to freak out.

You have security on you, too, right?

Dammit.

***

OMG.  I saw the news. Are you alright?

What are you going to do?

How did Mary react?

Seriously, what are you going to do?

You’re not picking up the phone.  Please pick up your phone.

Or at least text, please.

John, I’m worried about you.  Please let me know you’re alright.

***

I understand you want to be alone right now.  But that isn’t what you need.

No, I do know better than you right now.

You need to resolve this.  Soon.  Don’t let it rip you apart.

But if you need a drink, a good cry, or a place to stay, let me know. 

Love you, Johnny.


	2. The Ex

**Incoming Text Notification**

Sorry for your loss.  – Jeanette

 


	3. The Reporter

Kitty Riley had been expecting a request to meet with the newspaper’s publisher.

She did not expect the publisher to have solicitors with him.

“Please sit down, Miss Riley.”

After a morning of preening over her exclusive on Sherlock Holmes and her shared byline on his suicide, Kitty was not cowed as she sat at the long mahogany table.  Her reporter’s instincts took over, and she cataloged the gentlemen at the table.  The publisher was wearing a suit that surely cost more than a month of her salary, his white hair coifed more carefully than the Queen’s.  Her editor was in his traditional button-down, but his tie was knotted appropriately for a change. Two solicitors, most likely lead and assistant due to slight difference in their ages, but both old enough to take point in their own right, Mont Blancs and laptops ready to go.

Putting on a show.

The afternoon light was bright enough that Kitty almost did not notice the other people present.  On the couch by one of the windows that looked over the London skyline, one man and the only other woman in the room sat, seemingly just observing the proceedings. 

Kitty decided to make the first move.  She smiled winningly.  “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

Her editor responded.  “Kitty, we’re here this morning to make sure that we have all the facts on your Richard Brook piece.”

“You may ask anything you like.”  Kitty was not intimidated.  She had done nothing wrong.

The publisher chimed in next.  “Miss Riley, our solicitors will be asking you a few questions.”

“Before I answer, may I ask why you’ve brought in the legal team?”

The publisher and editor both shifted in their seats, then the editor said, “Because Sherlock Holmes killed himself, we want to make sure that there was nothing in your piece that can be construed as libelous.”

The publisher added, “And his colleague, John Watson, may be looking for retribution, so we want to make sure we leave no stones unturned.”

Kitty smirked.  “I would think the suicide absolved me of blame and assured us of Holmes’ guilt.  As for Watson, I’m not so sure colleague is the correct term.  They never incorporated as business partners, nor did they ever file for a civil partnership.  Seems to me Watson was in on the fraud, and the lack of paperwork keeps his finances from being entailed.”  She settled comfortably into the leather chair, satisfied with her explanation of the facts.  “I’ll be after him next.”

The older of the solicitors spoke up.  “How did you come into contact with Richard Brook?”

She turned her head until she was meeting his gaze directly.  “I was putting feelers out, wanting to do an exclusive on the Reichenbach Hero. I’d even asked Holmes himself if he would cooperate. He turned me down, quite rudely, but I kept asking around to see if anyone else wanted to give me an interview.  A few months back, I received a phone call from Brook on my work mobile.”

She observed that the assistant solicitor and the woman on the couch were taking notes and resigned herself to parting with her phone records.  She starting making a mental list of personal details that she’d need to disappear.

“How did you verify Brook’s story?”

“He knew things about Holmes that were not part of public record, but that I managed to verify.  I was able to determine that he did contact the police during the original Carl Powers investigation.  Also that Holmes got his start as a so-called consulting detective at uni while investigating the death of a friend’s father.  I got in touch with this man, Trevor, and confirmed this as well as the nature of their friendship.  Details like this, as well as the DVDs, headshots and articles about Brook as an actor, convinced me of Brook’s story.”

“When was the last time that you were in contact with Richard Brook?”

Kitty hesitated.  She did not want to reveal that she had formed an unprofessional attachment to Brook.  She also did not want to admit that Holmes and Watson had been in her home while evading police, afraid that she could be accused of harboring fugitives.  So she gave the most truthful answer she could, without giving any specifics.

“I had my last contact with him the night before the story was published.”

“The night before Holmes killed himself?“ asked the lead solicitor.

“Yes.”

“Have you attempted to contact him since?”

Taking a deep breath, Kitty replied, “Yes.”

“With no success?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any idea where Richard Brook is now?”

“No.”  Kitty hoped that her discomfort did not show.  She was worried about Richard, not only as her lover, but as her source for this and hopefully more exclusives.

“Are you absolutely sure that you have no idea where he could be?” pressed the solicitor, as her editor and publisher kept their eyes focused on her.

“Yes.”  Her breaths started to come more quickly and shallowly, annoying Kitty.  Why were they so focused on finding Brook?  She had not committed any misconduct, so why was everyone else at the table nervous?

“Gentlemen, allow me to assist you in your questioning.”  The man who had been sitting by the window rose and approached the table.  His umbrella tapped along the floor with each confident stride.  “If you’ll just leave us, I’m sure I’ll be able to coax more details from Miss Riley.”


	4. The Doctor

_Beep_

John, it’s Sarah.  Sorry we keep playing phone tag.  I should have realized you’d be screening your calls.  I bet it’s crazy for you right now.  Glad to hear your name has been cleared.

It’s good you’ve been keeping yourself busy.  I think writing up the other cases will be cathartic for you, and I’m sure the public will want to read them. 

But I meant what I said in my last voicemail.  If you want locum work here at the surgery, it’s yours.  Whenever you’re ready.  We might even have a permanent position opening up soon.  If we aren’t exciting enough for you, I’d be happy to give you a recommendation for an A&E posting.  Just let me know.

Before I go, just one more thing.  I know he wasn’t a fake.  After what I went through, what I saw you go through, I know those cases were real.  I just can’t believe the arrogant bastard… well, I can’t believe he’d hurt you like that.  I don’t know if many people are saying that to you right now, but you need to hear it.

Let me know about the locum work soon.  Take care of yourself, okay?

_Beep_

 


	5. The Therapist

**Patient: John H. Watson, M.D. (RAMC, Capt., Ret.)**

**Brief Summary - Cover Page for Quick View**

**Keep in Front of File**

**Pre-Visit Summary - for consultations separated by at least six months**

Recommended frequency of consultation:  Weekly

Previous visit: 18 months ago

Diagnosis: mild PTSD, trust issues

Prescriptions: none

Reason for next visit: not specified by patient, but I’ve seen the news.

**Post-Visit Summary**

Visibly distressed over suicide of best friend.

No PTSD complications due to viewing suicide requiring change in treatment… yet.

Trust issues compounded by loss.

Has things he wishes he would have said to friend, things he wishes to not have said. 

Would not discuss those things with me.

Spent most of consultation quietly sitting.  Obvious this visit was not his choice.

Recommendations:  weekly consultations, limited use of alcohol due to family history

Prescriptions:  none

**Post-Visit Summary**

Previous visit: one week ago

No obvious deterioration in condition since last visit.

No change in willingness to discuss emotional reaction to friend’s death.

Says “being here is enough”.

Admitted that visits were to satisfy demands of sister.

Recommendations:  weekly consultations, limited use of alcohol due to family history

Prescriptions:  none

**Post-Visit Summary**

Previous visit: one week ago

Mentioned that he’d moved from the flat he shared with deceased friend.

Said he kept expecting to see friend in the flat.

(Not as preposterous as it sounds - history.)

No obvious deterioration in condition since last visit.

Recommendations:  weekly consultations, limited use of alcohol due to family history

Prescriptions:  none

**Post-Visit Summary**

Cancelled

**Post-Visit Summary**

Previous visit:  One month ago

Patient relieved that his name was cleared in investigation regarding deceased friend.

Returning to medical practice.

Writing up cases performed with friend perhaps to publish as blog/book format.

Goal is to clear friend’s name.

Seems improved from past visits.  Having concrete goals provides focus.

Still unwilling to discuss emotions, still trust issues, but not crippling.

Recommendations:  Monthly consultations, limited use of alcohol due to family history

Prescriptions:  none

**Post-Visit Summary**

Previous visit:  One month ago

Patient asked if it is normal to think he sees his deceased friend lingering around.

Sighted him near surgery and new flat. Same build, different hair color.

Admits to having nightmares. 

When asked, says he is not suffering from suicidal ideation.

(Asked because of history.)

Recommendations:  Monthly consultations, limited use of alcohol due to family history

Prescriptions:  none

**Post-Visit Summary**

Previous visit:  One month ago

I did most of talking at this session.

Informed patient that his file had been viewed by unknown persons without my approval.

Patient made comment about friend’s brother, then stormed out of session.

Recommendations:  Monthly consultations, limited use of alcohol due to family history

Prescriptions:  none

**Post-Visit Summary**

Cancelled

 

**Post-Visit Summary**

Previous visit:  Three months ago

Patient was in good spirits, having made headway towards clearing deceased’s name.

Asked if patient was engaged in social life - friends, yes. No romantic involvement.

Asked if it was time to move on romantically.  Patient seemed confused by question.

Trust issues.

Recommendations:  Monthly consultations, limited use of alcohol due to family history

Prescriptions:  none

**Post-Visit Summary**

Cancelled

 

**Post-Visit Summary**

Previous Visit:  Three months ago

Patient was more talkative, but mostly concerned about former landlady.

Patient concerned that landlady is having delusions or exhibiting dementia.

Patient only said “fine” when asked about himself.

Recommendations:  Monthly consultations, limited use of alcohol due to family history

Prescriptions:  none

 

**Post-Visit Summary**

Previous visit:  One month ago

I did most of talking at this session.

Informed patient that his file had been viewed by unknown persons without my approval.

Patient did not storm out, as he did in previous instance.

Patient reacted as if I’d proven something to him, almost pleased, but I don’t know what.

Recommendations:  Monthly consultations, limited use of alcohol due to family history

Prescriptions:  none

 

**Post-Visit Summary**

Cancelled

 

**Post-Visit Summary**

Previous visit:  Three months ago

Patient asked me to record the following in his file:

“I wish I could take back the last things I said to him in person. He was my best friend.”

Recommendations:  Monthly consultations, limited use of alcohol due to family history

Prescriptions:  none

 

**Post-Visit Summary**

Cancelled

 

**Post-Visit Summary**

Previous visit: Five months ago

Patient seemed in good spirits.

Patient is dating a woman, one with a medical background.

Still concerned about landlady.

Recommendations:  Monthly consultations, limited use of alcohol due to family history

Prescriptions:  none

 

**Post-Visit Summary**

Cancelled

 

**Post-Visit Summary**

Previous visit: Three months ago

Patient and girlfriend have moved in together.

Claims that living with someone again is not exacerbating PTSD related to deceased.

Asked if new relationship has clarified feelings for deceased.

Patient did not respond.  Slight tremor in left hand.  Abrupt end to session.

Trust issues not improving.

Recommendations:  Monthly consultations, limited use of alcohol due to family history

Prescriptions:  none

**Post-Visit Summary**

Cancelled

**Pre-Visit Summary - for consultations separated by at least six months**

Recommended frequency of consultation:  Monthly

Previous visit: 12 months ago

Diagnosis: mild PTSD, trust issues

Prescriptions: none

Reason for next visit: not specified by patient, but I’ve seen the news.

 


	6. The Pathologist

“Thank you so much for joining me, Miss Hooper.  I hope I haven’t kept you waiting for long?”

Molly Hooper remained seated in the leather chair as she watched Mycroft Holmes walk around to sit at his desk.  The room had darkened as she had waited, the sunset blazing briefly through the room’s one window.

“Tea?” he offered.

“No, thank you.” 

Mycroft smiled thinly and said, “You must be wondering why I’ve brought you here.”

Molly smiled nervously back.  “There really aren’t many options, are there?”

“Good, good.  Then I’ll be direct.  Have you had many interactions with John Watson recently?”

“No.  I see him occasionally at Bart’s when one of his patients gets lab tests there.  Otherwise, not often.”

“But you are checking up on him.”

“Of course.  I text him every now and then, and I’ve visited Mrs. Hudson for tea a few times.  She seems lonely.”

Mycroft agreed.  “Yes, she is.”  His voice was more gentle than Molly had ever heard it.

“Oh, and I see Mike Stamford at work all the time.  He and John have been hanging out quite a bit.  I think Mike’s doing his best to take care of John.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“Not my place, Mr. Holmes.  John and I weren’t close before this, and it would be awkward for me to hover around him now.”

Mycroft nodded as if he was satisfied with that answer and continued.  “I noticed that Detective Inspector Lestrade has been at Bart’s several times over the past few weeks.  Are you working with him on a case?”

“A few cases, yes.  He isn’t sure yet, but there might be a new serial killer in London.”  Molly paused, then added.  “He keeps mentioning how much he misses Sherlock at times like this.”

“I’m sure he does.”

Molly leaned forward.  “I won’t tell him.  Sherlock asked me to keep his secret, and I promised I would.”

“Surely it must be difficult to keep this from Lestrade.” 

“You have no idea.”  For the first time, a bit of an edge came into her voice.

Mycroft lifted a mocking eyebrow.  “I didn’t realize that you and the Detective Inspector had become so close.” 

Angrily, Molly responded, “That isn’t what I meant, and if you’re so clever, you should already know that.”

Leaning back in his chair, the elder Holmes brother said, “Enlighten me.”  He steepled his hands under his chin, and Molly wondered if both Holmes brothers picked up the gesture from the same person. 

“I know people think my job is morbid, being around the dead all day long.  But my work is important.  I help find out the truth.  Why do you think I liked helping your brother so much?”

“Because of an unrequited crush?”

Molly did not flinch at the cruel comment.  “Because he helped bring closure to the ones left behind.”

“I sincerely doubt that my brother had such noble motivation.”

“Well, I do.  Whether it be telling them that the cancer was too far advanced or it was murder or suicide, I help people begin the process of healing by giving them the truth of their loved one’s death.”

Molly paused, looking down at her clasped hands in her lap.  She continued softly, “I’m glad that I don’t see John very often.  Sherlock said that John is the strongest person he’s ever known and that he’ll be fine.  I know it’ll be true in the long run, but right now he’s so sad.  He’s mourning, so hurt and alone, even with friends around him.  And what he’s gone through in the press.”  Molly hissed through clenched teeth.  “They’ve been relentless.  The name-calling, prying questions, following him around… That poor man.” 

Mycroft said, “I think Doctor Watson has handled himself admirably. Quite the tragic figure.”

There was a hint of smugness in Mycroft’s tone. Molly’s mouth twisted with realization.  “Oh, my god. Whose idea was it to use John’s grief as a cover story?”

“Now, Miss Hooper…” but Mycroft was cut off.

“You bastards.”

Mycroft fixed Molly with a stern look.  “Doctor Watson is alive.  That is what matters.”

She shook her head.  “John will never forgive him.”

“Of course, he will.  Doctor Watson knows that my brother has never had anyone he wanted to protect before.”

Molly braced her feet on the front of Mycroft’s oversized desk.  “It’s always been about John, hasn’t it?  Sherlock could have justified Greg’s death as being in the line of duty.  He would have been saddened by Mrs. Hudson’s death, but could console himself that she’d lived a long, full life.  But John…”

“Where others said ‘Freak’, John said ‘Friend’,” interrupted Mycroft, his voice soft and sad. 

Molly glanced at Mycroft and for the first time saw a brother, not a strategist.  “How are you doing?”

Mycroft lost his perfect posture and slumped back in his chair.  “My brother has gone out into the world to take down a criminal syndicate that even I do not know the full extent of.  Sherlock can solve mysteries, but he can’t wage a war on his own.” His eyes lost their sharpness.  “I wish he had his soldier with him.”

Molly never quite saw John as a soldier, with his gentle mannerisms and nurturing instincts.  She sat back in her chair and prompted, “I always thought of John as a doctor, more than a soldier.”

A twinkle made a brief appearance in Mycroft’s eyes.  “That’s because you haven’t seen his military record.  They didn’t call him “Three Continents Watson” for nothing.”

Despite herself, Molly giggled.  “I’m pretty sure Sherlock thought there was another reason for that nickname.”

“Maybe that’s how his old comrades-in-arms use it now, but John earned that nickname for his prowess with weapons, not women.” 

“I’m surprised Sherlock did not figure that out when he read John’s record.”

“Would you believe that Sherlock refused to read it?”

Molly was confused. “What?”

Mycroft nodded at her.  “Sherlock told me that he would rather hear his new flatmate’s secrets straight from him or deduce them for himself.”

A wondering look crossed Molly’s face.  “John was different from the very beginning, made Sherlock different.”

Mycroft sighed in agreement.  “John Watson, a paradox.  A danger hidden in plain sight.  Healer and killer.  Certainty and chaos.  Everything that people think he sought out from Sherlock he returned to my brother in spades.” 

“If you told John, he’d help…” Molly was cut off.

“If it was my decision, I’d have done it immediately after the fall.  Sherlock has expressly forbidden it.”  He glared at her.  “Don’t.”

Molly refused to be intimidated.  She looked Mycroft directly in the eye. “I could tell John the truth. He would choose to help.  At the very least, it would give him closure. ”

Mycroft looked up at the ceiling.  “Miss Hooper, Molly, you can’t.  You know the reasons why John cannot know that Sherlock is alive.  It is to save both of them.” 

Molly noted that Mycroft did not seem comfortable with the hint of desperation that crept into this voice.

“It’s taking longer than Sherlock thought it would, to tie up all the loose ends.”  It was a statement.

Mycroft threaded his fingers together on the table.  “Yes.”  Mycroft closed his eyes.  “I’m scared for my little brother, alone in the world again after having found such a partner.”

“I won’t tell.  I’ve already given my word.  I just don’t know how long I can go without slipping up in front of Greg or John.”

“If you like, I could arrange a sabbatical for you.  Remove you from the temptation.”

Molly sighed.  “No, thanks.  You’ll just have to accept the risk of leaving me alive.”

This surprised Mycroft, and he looked at Molly curiously.  “Did my brother make me out to be that much of a monster?”

“He emphasized how ruthless you could be.”

Mycroft smiled.  “In that, my dear brother is correct.  I am ruthless about protecting him, and I will do what it necessary to ensure his safety.  For the moment, however, that just means periodic meetings between you and me.”

An unexpected sense of relief flooded through Molly. She had not realized she had been so wary of Mycroft Holmes.   “All right, I can do that.  Will it always involve being kidnapped by men in expensive suits?”

“Perhaps we can arrange a more pleasant way of meeting.”

“What is our cover story?”

“I’m upset with how long it is taking for some of the toxicology reports to be returned.”

Molly sniffed.  “If that’s our story, it’s an insult to my professional abilities.”

Mycroft hummed his pleasure at Molly’s comment, his voice was warm with approval.  “We’ll keep this story just for a few more weeks, then come up with a new one.  That is, if Sherlock hasn’t returned by then.”

Molly nodded her consent.

Mycroft got up and looked out the window.  “Thank you again for coming here tonight, Miss Hooper.  The same car that brought you here will take you to whatever destination you choose.”

Molly rose from her chair, resisting the urge to stretch the tense muscles of her shoulders.   Mycroft’s voice stopped her as she turned to leave.  “Do you ever hear from him?”

Molly walked to the door, then paused with her hand on the doorknob.  Her back was to Mycroft as she softly responded, “A few times, I’ve received a text.  It’s always from a different number, but I know it’s from him because the message is always the same.”

She looked over her shoulder at Mycroft.  “ _Is he alright?_ ”

Mycroft cast his eyes down.

“Then I type the one word that I know he needs to see _,_ and that makes me a liar to them both.”

 


	7. The Officer

Sergeant Sally Donovan collapsed in a chair in Greg Lestrade’s office.  The two were not yet back on good terms after the suicide of Sherlock Holmes one week earlier, and Donovan was not sure how the Detective Inspector would react to the report in his hands.  She would soon find out as he slammed the folder on his desk.

“So, do you actually expect me to bring John Watson in for questioning?” He glared at Donovan across his desk.

“No, sir.”

Lestrade was curious.  “Really?  So, what do you think that this evidence means if you don’t suspect John?”

Donovan sighed.  “I think this proves that Holmes was set up.”  At Lestrade’s surprised look, she continued.  “The little girl screamed when Holmes came in to talk to her, but when presented with photos individually, she couldn’t identify him.  The only time she picked anyone as being her kidnapper was when the photo contained two people - one tall with dark hair, and the other fair and shorter.”  Donovan gnawed on her bottom lip.  “Turns out she screamed at the combination of Holmes and Watson, and I just can’t believe that Watson would have been involved in the kidnapping of two small children.”

Lestrade looked at the tired woman in the chair across from him.  “So, you’re saying…”

“I think this was all part of the plan.”

“You believe in Sherlock Holmes?”

“No, but I trust John Watson.”

An uncomfortable quiet settled over the office, then Donovan whispered, “I never thought the freak would kill himself.”

Lestrade responded, “I’m not sure he did.”

“What?”

“I don’t think Sherlock Holmes would kill himself.”

“He jumped off a building.”

Lestrade rubbed his eyes.  “I know, I know, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t pushed.”

“Watson saw Holmes jump off of Bart’s.  He didn’t see anybody push him.”

“You don’t have to touch someone to give them a push.”

“You think Holmes was coerced?”

“I certainly don’t think that Sherlock would have allowed his work to be tarnished without fighting back.”  Lestrade sighed.  “Not that he really cared what people thought about him, but the work is a different matter.”

Sally spoke slowly.  “So, if Moriarty existed, what could he have used against Holmes to make him kill himself in front of his best friend?”

Lestrade met Sally’s gaze with sad eyes and did not say anything.

Sally’s breath caught in her throat.  “Oh.  That poor man.  Do you have proof?”

“Nothing but gut instinct, but that seems to be what I feel most comfortable believing right now.”

“Yeah.  I feel like I can’t trust my own eyes anymore.”  Sally leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, but the truth still did not appear to her.

***

A few weeks later, John Watson sat across from Greg Lestrade in his office, where Sally Donovan stood next to the paper-strewn desk.

“So, is this about punching the Chief Superintendent?” John asked.

Greg smiled.  “No. That charge has been dropped.”

John’s mouth opened in shock, no sound emerging.

Greg tilted his head towards Sergeant Donovan.  “Care to explain, Sally?”

“When it came time to file the report, I noted that you had been provoked by the Chief Superintendent.”

“What? Why?”

Sally looked down at her feet.  “The man came into your home and boasted about the arrest of your flatmate and best friend in front of you.  It was obnoxious and inappropriate.  And after…” Sally stopped speaking.

John stiffened in his chair, then cleared his throat.  “Sergeant Donovan, Sally, I just want you to know that Sher… he didn’t blame you.  I’m having difficulty with forgiveness, because I’m still angry about what happened, but he didn’t blame you.  You followed the evidence, and he understood that.  He always saw different clues than the rest of us did, but he respected your tenacity in following up the ones you saw.”  John’s mouth thinned in an effort to keep control.  “This game was so well played, the evidence so clear.  It would have been negligent not to follow up.”

Greg snorted.  “Hence, my suspension.”

John laughed abruptly.  “Yeah.”

Sally’s voice quavered as she replied.  “Thanks, John.  That means a lot to me.”

A brief silence was broken by Greg.  “We’re working on clearing your name, John.  Nobody thinks that you were part of any fraud, but…”

“He wasn’t a fraud.”

Greg exchanged a glance with Sally.  “We know.”

John looked Greg, then Sally, in the eye.  “Really?”

“Yes,” replied Sally.

John slumped in relief. 

Greg continued.  “But we still have to prove it.  We need to come up with a plan.”

After a few quiet moments, John said, “I still keep thinking that he’s fooled us all, you know.  That he’s alive.  That’s why I had to leave Baker Street.  I felt like I could legitimately expect him to be in the flat at any time, gloating over how he’d pulled it off.”

Sally asked, “I hate to be blunt, but, other than wishful thinking, do you have any reasons to believe that Holmes faked his death?”

Greg looked at John hopefully.  “John?”

“There were things he said the night before… we were sitting in the dark, handcuffed together.  To pass the time, he told me stories.  Some seemed like riddles.  Even talked about what we’d do when we retired.” Any hint of a pleasant memory ended with his next words.   “And then in the phone call…” John’s voice broke, and he stopped speaking.

“Was there something that you didn’t share with us?” asked Sally, gently.

John raised an eyebrow and looked at the two officers.  “Of course.”

Greg heaved a loud sigh.  “You can’t just hide stuff from us.”

John straightened in his seat and seemed to close himself off from the others.  “Some things are personal.  And, quite frankly, I’m not convinced that you don’t have a mole here at the Yard.”

Sally looked at Greg, who nodded almost imperceptibly. “Guess we’ll have to make the Moriarty part of this investigation off-the-record,” she said.  Looking back at John, “For now, let’s get you sorted.”

***

Sally was in the frozen food aisle at Tesco, when she heard a familiar voice.

“Hello, Sally.”

She turned and saw John Watson, with a fine selection of healthy foods in his basket.  She looked sheepishly at her frozen meals and crisps and replied, “Hello, Doctor.  Please, don’t judge me.”

 John laughed. “I haven’t seen you in a few months.  So I haven’t had the chance to thank you in person for your part in clearing my name.”

“Just glad to help keep you out of debtors prison,” Sally responded, uncomfortably.  The guilt she felt over the death of Sherlock Holmes tempered any acceptance of gratitude.

“I still had my share of what we’d earned from our private cases.  Believe it or not, those he had helped did not sue me for fraud.  Our clients knew the truth.”  Sadness appeared in his eyes, so Sally tried to tease it away.

“Well, the freak always said that people were idiots.”

He smiled.  Sally knew he hated being treated like fragile glass.  He reassured her, “It has really helped me, to practice medicine again.  I was so worried about that.  I won’t forget what you’ve done.”

Sally grinned at John.  “I was just happy to help you.  And your own case notes were invaluable.  Even your blog!”

“He’d never forgive you for saying my blog was useful, you know.”

Sally was pleased to see John in a teasing mood, the sadness still present, but diminished in his eyes.  “Oh, I know, but he’d be so secretly proud at the same time.”  She stepped closer and softly said, “I’d see that in his eyes some times, the way he’d look at you.”

John cleared his throat and did not quite meet her eyes.  “Thank you, Sally.  For everything.”

As she watched him walk away, she allowed some pride in herself, for helping make things right.

***

John Watson sat across the table from Sally Donovan at a pub that was far enough away from New Scotland Yard that they were not concerned about being watched.  As they waited for Greg Lestrade to join them, John looked at Sally thoughtfully.  “May I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why did you hate him so much?”

“It wasn’t hate, it was just…”  Sally paused, searching for the right words.  “Crime scenes make me sad, they made Sherlock happy.  It’s as simple as that.”

John countered, softly. “What does that say about me?”

“You’re different, John.  Crime scenes made you sad, _he_ made you happy.”

Greg arrived at the table, three pints wobbling in his hands.  John looked glad for the interruption.  “Alright,” said Greg, “let’s get to work.  Sally, tell John what you’ve discovered.”

John looked expectantly at Sally as she took a long drink from her glass before beginning.  “It was something you said, John, about how Sherlock always saw different clues than the rest of us.”

John quoted, “ _There is nothing so deceptive as an obvious fact_.”

Sally, “Yeah, did he say that?”

John nodded.

“So I went back through the cases and separated out the clues.  You know, the ones Sherlock saw as opposed to the ones the police investigation found.  We were able to determine that Sherlock did not perpetrate most of the crimes that led to the cases he worked on.  We’ll be able to clear his name on those.”

“Most of the crimes?” John repeated.

Sally looked at Greg, then back at John.  “We found a pattern for a few of the cases.”

“What do you mean, a pattern?” John asked.

Greg said, “A parallel set of clues found by Sherlock that, in retrospect, were clearly placed there for him to find.”

John ventured, “So you think you’ve found evidence that Sherlock was a fraud?”  His tone was edged with bitterness.

Sally shook her head.  “No, John.  Actually, your case notes and blog, and even Sherlock’s blog, helped us to show that he could not have placed the vast majority of this evidence.  The timeline just doesn’t work.”

Greg jumped in.  “There are instances when it seems like evidence was placed after our initial sweep, but before you and Sherlock arrived.”

Sally added, “Some of the cases I worked myself, and I’m no Holmes, but I wouldn’t have missed some of this evidence.”

“So what are you saying?”

Greg’s voice cracked as he said, “We think we’ve found evidence that Moriarty was real, that he set up a few cases for Sherlock to solve.  Ones we weren’t aware that Moriarty was playing a role in at the time.”

John smiled weakly, disbelievingly.  “So that’s it, then.  We can go to the public and completely clear him.  We can indict Moriarty, at least his name.  We can fix this whole mess.”

“No, John, I’m sorry.”  Lestrade looked deep into his pint.

John looked at Sally.  “But why not?”

“We can go to the press and say that we’ve been able to clear Sherlock’s involvement in most cases.  But…” Sally looked at Greg, who nodded.  “But we’ve been asked by, um, government officials to not claim that Moriarty was real.”

“Mycroft,” John muttered, hands over his eyes, “I can’t believe him.  What the hell is he playing at?”  Then John looked back at Greg and Sally where they sat across the table from him.  “What cases, specifically?”

“Well, obviously, the kidnapping of the Ambassador’s children.  The banker kidnapping.  That most-wanted guy.”  Sally took a deep breath. “But also the Turner painting.  _Reich bach_ , Rich Brook in German.” 

“The case that made his name,” whispered John.  “Moriarty built him up so he could take a great… Jesus.”  John placed both palms flat on the table, breathing deeply for a few moments. 

Sally reached out to clasp one of John’s hands.  He lifted up his head to look at her.  “There is more, isn’t there?”

Greg put a hand over John’s free one.  “Yes, and it will not be easy to hear.”

Sally continued.  “You were right.  There was a mole in the Yard.  A sergeant in our division.  We think he helped plant some of the evidence for Sherlock to find.”

Greg added.  “We also think he helped forge some legal documents to make Rich Brook appear real.  A few parking citations, and the like.”

“Where is he now?” John asked.

“Dead.  He hung himself while in custody.”

John’s head fell back against the hard wood of the booth.  “Any information before he did it?”

At this question, Greg sighed heavily.  John was startled to see tears form in his eyes.

“Tell me.” John’s tone was calm and even.

“He claimed that he was also charged with assassinating Lestrade if…” Sally paused and took a deep breath.  “He was supposed to assassinate Lestrade if Sherlock did not kill himself.”

John squeezed their clasped hands tightly.  “Who else?”

“There were two other assassins. Mrs. Hudson.  You.”

John’s eyes held unshed tears, but he smiled faintly.  “We knew this.  Maybe not the specifics, but we knew that he must have been threatened with something… meaningful.”  He cleared this throat.  “How did you get this information?”

Greg tilted his head to the side and said roughly, “I had, um, a little chat with him before he hung himself.  The official investigation hadn’t started yet.“  He had the gall to look sheepish.

John laughed, and Sally said, “Let’s pretend we never heard that, eh?”

John let go of their hands and straightened his back. “You do realize you still have a mole in the Yard.”

“What?” asked Greg.

“Of course, “ Sally responded.  She turned to Greg. “Somebody wanted to take the sergeant out of the picture before the investigation started.”  Then she looked back at John.  “Somebody good, too.  I saw no signs that it wasn’t a suicide.”

A glimmer of realization showed in John’s face.  “And I bet the carpenter Mrs. Hudson hired wasn’t killed in a random mugging either.  Always thought it was strange, him being found dead a few days after…”  He tried to make light of the situation.  “He was there that whole time and never finished the job.”

The three sat quietly, each following the threads of the web that Moriarty left in his wake.

Sally broke the silence.  “This means that Moriarty’s people are still in action.  This game with Sherlock isn’t over.  That would explain why we can’t go public.”  She touched John’s hand again.  “Your assassin is still out there.  You must still be in danger.”

John shook his head.  “But why?  I’m not the consulting detective.  Why would I be in danger if the game is…”  He placed his hands over his eyes, anger clearly showing in the set of his shoulders.  He slammed his hands against the table.  “Excuse me.”  He stood and walked briskly to the loo.

Greg leaned his head against the wall.  “God, I hate seeing John like that.  He’s been doing so much better recently, with Mary and all.”

“I know,” replied Sally.  “He’s right, though.  It isn’t fair that we can’t go public with Moriarty.”

“Mycroft must have his reasons.”

“Why the three of you?” Sally asked.  “Why not just John?”

Greg shook his head.  “Sherlock loved Mrs. Hudson like a mother.  Liked me in his own way, and he needed me for his work.  But John…well, John made him a better man.  It’s like he reminded Sherlock he had a heart.  They made a great team.  They just fit, you know?”

“Oh, my god, “ breathed Sally.  “You and Mrs. Hudson were collateral.”

“Explain.”

“Sherlock would have wanted to hunt down Moriarty and clear his name.  John would have helped.  You said it, they made a great team.  Hunting down a criminal organization would have been like a tropical holiday for those two.”  Sally slowed down, choosing her words carefully.  “But what if you and Mrs. Hudson would have been in danger only if Sherlock had John by his side.  John would have never forgiven himself for your deaths, and his relationship with Sherlock would have been destroyed.”

“So you think the Sherlock’s choice was to kill himself to save John, or to choose John and still lose him?  Cor, Sally, that’s an awful thought.”

Sally and Greg sipped their pints in silence for a few moments, the carefree atmosphere of the pub at odds with the frustration they both felt.

“Do you agree that John is still in danger?” asked Sally.  “That must be it, right?  If Moriarty was real, then maybe John would know something from their investigations that was a threat to whatever organizations he left behind?”

Greg nodded.  “That’s all I can come up with.  Somehow John is still a pawn in this game, poor sod.”

“Shh…”

John was approaching their table as briskly as he had left with, but this time with a confident determination.  He did not sit down, but instead reached for his jacket hooked over the back of the booth.  “If something were to happen, say, to a minor member of the British government tonight, would I have an alibi with you?”

Greg didn’t hesitate.  “You were here all night with us, got you right drunk.”

“Then I took you home,” said Sally with a wink.

John nodded at the two of them, then left the pub.

Greg Lestrade smiled.  “Looks like we’re preparing for battle.”

 “I don’t know what he’ll be able to get Mycroft Holmes to agree to, but I’m ready to do my part.  We’ll make sure our case is solid against Moriarty.” Sally Donovan stood up and held her hand out to the Detective Inspector.  “Let’s do our best to clear the rep of that wanker.”

 


	8. The Teacher

Mike Stamford was waving a hand for John Watson to join him.  John was at the St. Bart’s Holiday party at Mike’s invitation, figuring it was about time he started to socialize again.  John grabbed a beer from the bar and crossed the dimly lit pub to where Mike was standing.  He noted that Mike started waving somebody else over while watching John approach.

_Ah, so it begins_ , thought John.  By the time he reached Mike, a petite woman with a friendly smile was already chatting with him.

“John!  Glad you showed up tonight.”

“Thanks for inviting me, Mike.”

Mike gestured to the woman next to him.  “Mary, this is who I told you about earlier.  Doctor John Watson, allow me to introduce you to Doctor Mary Morstan.”

John smiled politely and held out his right hand.  “Good to meet you.”

Mary gripped his hand firmly with hers.  “Pleased to meet you, too.”

John heard the accent.  “American?”

Mike said, “Yes, Mary is here with us on loan from the U.S. Veteran’s Administration, teaching at Bart’s for the upcoming year.”

Mary nodded and added, “I’m here to teach courses on traumatic brain injuries.”  Her enthusiasm was quite engaging. “I’m integrating what we’ve learned from our returning vets, as well as what we’re seeing in the brains of football players…”  Mary paused and laughed as the men groaned. “Sorry, _American_ football players.  Give me a break, I’ve only been here a few months.”

“Sounds like interesting and important work,” said John.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to talk.”  Mike wandered off and greeted other people.

John looked down at his beer, feeling awkward.  When he looked up, Mary was smiling conspiratorially at him.

“Not very subtle, is he?”

John relaxed.  “No.”

Mary looked up and down at John.  “Come on, let’s find a table.  You seem to be favoring one leg.”

***

To his surprise, John was enjoying the conversation.  Mary was easy to talk to, and her research and his past as an army doctor gave them a foundation for discussion.  She spoke of her father, a military man himself, who started showing signs of dementia when she was still in her teens.  After a day helping him to look for a non-existent set of pearls in their home, the teenaged Mary investigated the connection between proximity to exploding munitions and brain trauma.  A passion for neurology developed and set her on her career.  Wanting to prevent her father’s struggle led her into teaching, as well as research.  John filled her in on his past, his love of surgery and how it brought him to the army, the injury that sent him home, the need to help people that kept him in medicine.  Sipping his beer, John could not recall the last time he felt so comfortable.

John noticed Mike giving a thumbs-up from across the room.  He glanced around and saw Greg Lestrade smiling at him, raising his glass to John from a distance.  John tipped his glass in return.  Molly Hooper was next to Lestrade, but looked concerned instead of happy when she met John’s eyes.  John filed that away to think about later, then turned his attention back to Mary.

Mary leaned towards him.  “I should let you know, Mike is definitely setting us up.  He told me all about you.”

“Did he?”

“Yes.  We’re a good fit because you’re getting over a traumatic loss and probably aren’t looking for anything serious.  I’m just here on a temporary basis, two years at the most, and my background means I wouldn’t be surprised or frightened by your inevitable nightmares.” She grinned at him.  “I’m game, if you are.”

John paused with his second beer halfway to his lips.  His mouth quirked.  “Like the straightforward approach, do you?”

“Honesty is best.”

John laughed, and Mary joined in.  John placed his pint back on the table.  “Good, yeah.  Honesty is good.”

“I’ve read your blog.  The cabbie, _Study in Pink_ , that was you, right?”

“Alright, maybe honesty isn’t all that good.”

“I’m assuming it was a different gun than the one you’re currently carrying.” 

John lifted his chin defiantly. 

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m an American,” Mary said with an exaggerated drawl. “I’m not judging you.”

“I’ll have you know that this gun was given to me by a minor member of the British government,” John responded.

Mary hesitated, then said, “After the past year or so you’ve had, is such easy access to a firearm wise?”

John looked directly at Mary.  “I’m not thinking of offing myself, if that’s what you’re asking.”  He clasped his hands together on the table before continuing, but kept his eyes focused on Mary’s.  “I’ve been there before… I was in a bad way when I was invalided home from Afghanistan.  He healed me.  Giving in to such an urge now would be like he never existed.  Like he wasn’t real.” 

“Working at Bart’s, I’ve heard a lot about Sherlock Holmes.  People there believe in him.”

John smiled nostalgically.  “Of course, they do.  He was a right pain in the arse to most of them.”

Mary laughed.  “Yes, that’s what I’ve heard.  Nobody believes he could have put up an act for so long.” 

“It wasn’t an act.”

After taking a sip of her beer, Mary asked, “I’d like to hear about him, if you’re okay with that.”

John tilted his head back and looked up at the ceiling. “Arrogant, yet insecure.  Aloof, but in desperate need of approval from the few of us he deemed worthy. Deceptively slender… pure muscle.  Good in a fight, only fair at making tea. And the violin, you would not believe how beautifully he could play when he wanted.”  He sat up and looked at the woman in front of him, a hint of a smile in eyes.  “Sometimes he would play for me, just for me, after a bad day.”

“Sounds like he was more than a roommate?”

“Of course, he was.”  John realized that Mary, with her background, would understand.  He sought to articulate feelings that he had never spoken aloud.  “In the army, you make close friends, you know?  Band of brothers cliché, and all that.  But you always hold something back, because you know each minute could bring the end.”  

Mary nodded her head, encouraging him to continue.

“I let him get closer than I’ve ever let anyone.  Maybe it’s because he’d be able to deduce whatever he needed about me, but I instinctively trusted him.  With my friendship, with my life.”  John let out a weak chuckle.  “Most people thought I was mad for that.”

“Do you agree?”

“Sometimes, I do.  Let’s just say I never have to make up any of the more bizarre details on the blog.”

Mary laughed, then paused before asking her next question.  “Will you be updating it again, the blog?”

“Eventually.”  John frowned.  “Full disclosure?”

“I’ll keep your secret, “ said Mary, teasingly.

“Every time I try to write up one of our cases, I don’t know what tense to use.”

Sympathy tinged her voice when Mary responded, “How can you write in the past tense when Sherlock is still so much in your present?”

John sighed with gratitude.  “Yes, that’s it, exactly.  He’s been gone for so long, but he still dominates my life.  I honestly expected him to return.”  As he lifted his pint, his hand shook a bit.   “It’s so hard to believe, even now.  He was the most alive person I’ve ever known.”  He took a sip.  “And I feel like I need to defend his memory.”

Mary waved a hand towards the other people in the room.  “This crowd respects him for the cases solved, the lives saved.”

John looked down at the table.  “I never thanked him for saving mine.”

“Oh, John, he must have known.”

John exhaled.  He thought Sherlock must have known, too, but it felt good to hear somebody else say it.  “You’re better than my therapist.”

“That’s because most therapy sessions don’t happen in a pub with free beer flowing.”

John and Mary spent a quiet moment looking around the room.  People were chatting and laughing, the darkness of the pub alleviated by fairy lights draped over the bar and rafters.  John once again noticed concern on Molly’s face when she looked at him, so he smiled at her to show everything was fine.  She gave him a sad smile in return.

“It must have been hard for him, being so open to emotions all of the time.”

John looked at Mary with surprise.  “Most people didn’t see him that way.  They thought he was heartless.”

Mary shook her head.  “No, that couldn’t have been true.  He wouldn’t have been able to pick up on the non-verbal clues or understand people’s motivations without some reception.”  She grinned.  “He also bought you beer after a breakup.  That takes a heart.”  She winked at him.  “See, I told you I’ve been reading your blog.”

John smiled back at her.  “He definitely felt emotions.  Maybe not the appropriate one at the time, but he did have feelings.”

“He was just more in control of them than anyone you’ve ever known.” Mary finished his thought for him.

“I once called him Spock,” said John, in a reminiscent tone.

Her eyes lit up, and Mary said, “Oh, good one.  Most people think that Vulcans don’t experience emotions…”

“But in reality they have such strong emotions that they learned to control them.”

“Did he get the reference?”

“Doubtful.”  John thought back to that night in Dartmoor, sitting by the fire at the inn. Sherlock had been frightened by the seeming betrayal of his mind and body, more emotional than John had ever seen him.  The next day, Sherlock had called John his one friend.  A wave of sadness rushed over John, crushing him with the regret that he couldn’t save Sherlock in return for the life he’d given John. 

His emotions must have been written all over his face.  “You still miss him very much.”  Mary stated simply.

“Yes, yes, I do.  I keep thinking it’ll get easier.”  John shook his head.  “It’s been over a year now.  I truly believed I’d see him again, that somehow he’d managed to fake his death.  But if he hasn’t contacted me by now, he must be gone.”

John took another drink, the slight tremor of his hand increasing.

“It is time to move on.  It just seems like it should be easier already.”

“John, you know as well as I do that there isn’t any time table for getting over the death of someone you love so deeply.”

John found himself sputtering a response he hadn’t uttered in several months.  “We were never a couple.”

Mary smiled gently and responded, “I’m sorry.”

John looked at the woman across from him and saw nothing but compassion in her eyes. No mocking, no pity, no judgment, just a sincere sorrow for something that had never been.  He felt his carefully constructed barriers drop, and for a moment, John Watson allowed himself to feel sorry, too.

 


	9. The Woman

John Watson hung his white lab coat behind his office door and stretched his neck, which was suffering from a long day at the surgery.  After ten hours of treating colds and migraines, two spider bites, and one shockingly neglected case of shingles, he was looking forward to a quiet evening on the couch in front of the telly.  As he shrugged on his well-worn green jacket, his phone buzzed with an incoming text.  He smiled, expecting it to be from Mary, saying she was running late or could he pick up milk on his way home from work, and grabbed the phone from his trouser pocket.

_I’m not dead.  Let’s have dinner._

John stared at the text.  His troubled knee buckled, and he flattened his back against the door to stay upright.  His breaths came too quickly, and he realized he was on the verge of hyperventilating.  He practiced the breathing modifications he’d learned to deal with his nightmares and slowly regained control.  Before responding to the text, he called Mary.

“Hi, sweetheart.  I just heard from an old client of Sher… ours, and I’m meeting her for a drink on the way home.  That mess up any plans?”

***

Sitting in a corner table of the pub, Irene Adler owned the room.  Her emerald silk blouse wisped over dark blue jeans.  Her Louboutin pumps were dyed the same deep auburn as her hair.  Her flawless complexion was the color of cream, with all its intrinsic decadence.

Even dead, Irene Adler was still the woman who could bring a nation to its knees. 

She smiled at John Watson as he approached, knowing that he observed her power and was somehow completely unaffected by it. 

“Hello, Doctor Watson. Thank you for meeting me.” She gracefully gestured to the chair across from her.  “Please, sit.”

“Ms. Adler,” John said in greeting, as he pulled back the chair.

Irene laughed, a sparkling sound that had charmed many men and women.  “Dispensing with the pleasantries?  I always took you for a gentleman.”

“That’s as polite as I can manage at the moment, I’m afraid.”

“Well, then, maybe you’ll feel more gentlemanly after I buy you a drink.”

Irene waved at the bartender, who sent two pints over to their table.  John looked at his glass and cracked a bemused smile.  “You know my favorite beer.”

“Oh, I’ve made a study of you, Doctor Watson.”

“I guess you must have had a lot of time on your hands, being dead and all.”

Irene leaned forward, her green silk neckline posed to draw attention.  John just continued to look into her eyes.  She pursed her lips and drew back.  Met with silence.  She sipped her beer and licked the foam from her lips in a fashion that had broken up at least two marriages.  John yawned.

John Watson was a delightful creature, Irene thought to herself.

“I didn’t ask you here to discuss how I faked _my_ death.”  Irene leaned forward to whisper,   “So, how is our favorite detective doing?”

John recoiled.  “What?”

“Please, Doctor Watson, you don’t have to act with me.  How did he manage it?  He must have explained it all to you.”

“How can you ask me this?”  John took a long drink from his glass. 

For the first time in a long while, Irene felt unsettled.  “You mean you haven’t heard from Sherlock?”

His glass slammed into the table, attracting attention from other customers.  John spoke fiercely, “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but he jumped off a building right in front of me.  I saw him.  He made me watch.”  John paused, then whispered. “I saw the blood on his face, his eyes were still open. I tried to help, but…”

Irene reached out and grabbed his hand, but John pulled it away.  “I’m sorry,“ she said.  “I thought…”

“You thought he’d staged his death?”  John looked at Irene, then understanding.  “Like he helped you fake yours.”

Irene nodded.  “John, if he is truly dead, then I’m sorry for how this conversation has started.” 

She realized that she did feel sorry, an abnormal emotion for her, as John repeated, “If he is truly dead?”

Irene looked at the man in front of her.  So ordinary.  Average height, easy enough on the eyes.  Nothing about him to stand out in a crowd.  Yet she knew he had a gun tucked into his trousers and likely threw off at least one security detail on his way to meet with her. 

“People are disappearing.” 

“What people?” John asked.

 “To put it poetically, Moriarty’s web is slowly being unraveled.  You did not know?”

John sighed and leaned back in his chair. “It wouldn’t surprise me if Mycroft was behind that.  He’s a bastard, but he loved his brother in his own way.”

Irene hesitated, trying to come up with the right words.  “But would Mycroft leave the message that you weren’t to be harmed?”

At John’s confused expression, Irene continued.  “It is well-known amongst certain circles that John Watson is not to be touched, or else a storm will pass over them and many will wither before its blast.”  She was clearly quoting the last from memory.

“One fixed point in a changing age, “ John murmured wonderingly under his breath.

“Excuse me?”

John was lost in thought.  Irene was fascinated by the quick flux of emotions on his face.  Disbelief, hope, grief… then they were gone, and the calm face of the brave soldier returned.

“Nothing.”  John shook his head.  “Look, I understand why you thought he was alive, but it’s been over two years.  If he’s been undercover all this time without getting me word, I’d strangle him with my own bare hands when he returned.”

“That might be your first instinct, Doctor Watson.  One wonders what your second instinct would be once you finally laid hands on Sherlock Holmes?” 

“My army training would give me plenty of options.”

A startled laugh burst from Irene.  “It is so easy to see why Sherlock felt such affection for you. Never boring, are you?”

John laughed bitterly.  “Better than a skull, at least.”

“I must admit, I don’t quite know what to say to that.”  A true smile brightened her face.  “You keep me on my toes.”  Her smiled dimmed, as Irene said, “But you really haven’t heard from Sherlock.  It’s not him cleaning up the mess?”

John emptied the rest of his glass.  “Nice to know that somebody out there is watching out for me.  I haven’t spoken to Mycroft since… well… I’m sure he’s been taking care of things.  But how about you, Ms. Adler?  Who is watching out for you?”

“Oh, nobody, Doctor.  Sherlock made sure I didn’t need watching over ever again.”

At this, curiosity got the best of John.  “Tell me, how did he do it?”

Irene contemplated lying to the man in front of her, but felt compelled to share.  To tease the poor man?  Or to give him hope?  Irene was not used to being unsure of her own motives, but opted for a version of the truth nonetheless.

“A girl can’t give away all her secrets.  Let’s just say, given that Sherlock had exhibited an intellectual interest in me, I chose to not disappear so completely that he could not keep tabs on me.  I left a trail of breadcrumbs, so to speak.”

At the mention of breadcrumbs, John flinched.  Irene wondered what happened for him to react to such a mundane object.

“I know that he was infuriated that I had gotten the best of him.  Oh, sure, he won that night.  But I knew that he liked having an intellectual equal to engage with, that he’d be unhappy if I met with an untimely death.  So I planned a way for him to save me that would work in my favor.”

John asked, “But Mycroft saw your body, or at least people who he trusted did.”  John smirked.  “He said would take Sherlock Holmes himself to fool him.”

“Indeed it did.  When Sherlock returned to his hotel room in Karachi, I was waiting.  He realized that I’d been in control all along, placing the clues to rescue me.  I’d needed to disappear so that no one, not even Mycroft Holmes, could find me.  Who better to arrange that for me than Sherlock Holmes?”  Irene smirked, “So you see?  I am still the one woman who beat him.”

She deepened her voice and tilted her head.  “But I had to play along.  I told him, I wanted to adequately express my gratitude for all he had done.  I told Sherlock that I’d do anything, give him anything he wanted.”

John remained silent, but Irene could see his control was starting to slip. Predatory was the only word to describe Irene’s expression.  She leaned forward, wondering if she could get the good doctor to finally crack or if he would remain ever the stoic soldier.

“Believe it or not, he asked me for something.  Do you want to guess what Sherlock wanted from me, Doctor Watson?”

“Not particularly,” said John tightly.

Irene laughed fondly and leaned back in her chair.  “He asked me for a photograph.  One to commemorate a time when he felt completely at ease.  To remember a time when he felt happy and loved.”  She was so pleased with John’s guarded facial expression that she was almost purring.  “Would you like me to send you a copy?”

John snidely replied, “You must feel very proud of yourself.”

Irene raised an eyebrow.

“To be the one who made him care.  To be the one person who mattered.”

Irene rose from her chair, dropping an extravagant amount of cash on the table to cover their drinks.  She walked around the table to where John remained seated and looked down at him.  “True, he flew across two continents to save me from thugs and help me disappear.”  She gently turned John’s chin up towards her to force eye contact.  “But dead or alive, Sherlock Holmes gave up his life for you.  So tell me, Doctor Watson, who did he love?”

John remained motionless as Irene exited the cafe, disappearing into the darkening London evening.

***

Mary slept soundly next to John, as his mind replayed his conversation with Irene over and over again.  He resented that she was alive.  He resented that she brought back all of his hopes that Sherlock had faked his death, that there was a plan to all of the madness and pain.  He resented that, for an instant, he’d allowed himself to believe he’d see Sherlock again.

John’s mobile rattled on his nightstand.  He glanced over his shoulder at Mary, but she remained asleep.  John crept out of the bed, grabbed the phone, and entered the adjoining bathroom.  He was almost hoping it was a patient emergency to distract him from the events of the evening, but then he noticed the contents of the message.

_You know you want to look._   (Photo attachment)

John really did not want to look, but he knew that the message would taunt him, as was its intent.  Deleting it was not an option.  If he had any chance of getting some sleep before his alarm went off, he should just look at the photo.

The mobile shook in his left hand.  Dammit, he thought, just get it over with.

He thumbed open the attachment and gasped.  The image was not what he expected.

Sherlock and John were in a cab.  Just a hint of the stolen ashtray from Buckingham Palace was visible as Sherlock was hiding it back in his coat.  John was clearly laughing, and Sherlock was smiling and looking completely at ease.  Happy.  Loved?  Irene’s words echoed through his mind.

John Watson dropped to his bathroom floor and cried.

 


	10. The Assistant

For John Watson, I am always “Anthea”.  That was the name I first gave to him, the name he immediately knew wasn’t mine.  First impressions left a lot to be desired.  I lied to him, and he flirted with me. However, the awkward flirting in the car contrasted with the quiet defiance he showed my employer that first night. 

After learning he shot a man to save Sherlock Holmes’ life later that evening, I knew that the awkwardness was the act.

***

“Thank you for seeing me, Doctor Watson.”  I walked briskly to the seat that John held out for me.

“And thank you for agreeing to meet me here.”  John walked and took the chair at the other side of his desk.  “Flu season is keeping me busy, but I have a few minutes left til my afternoon appointments start.”

I opened up my briefcase and pulled out a file.  “I know that Mr. Holmes has approached you many times about the younger Mr. Holmes’ will over the past year.  As executor of the estate, Mr. Holmes is legally bound to have you hear the terms of the will, as you have been named as a beneficiary.”

“As I have told your employer many times already, I have no interest in receiving anything from the will.”  John’s lips formed a straight line.  I knew that his words to Mycroft Holmes had not been as polite as those he said to me.

“I completely understand.  So if you just allow me to say a few things to satisfy the legalities, I can be on my way.”  I opened up the file, but then allowed myself a moment of genuine curiosity.

“If you do not mind my asking, why are you unwilling to accept any of the inheritance that the younger Holmes left for you?” 

John let out an almost silent laugh.  “If I accept his will, then it’s like admitting that he is truly dead.”

I arranged my face in what I hoped was a convincing friendly yet professional expression.  “And do you have any reason to believe that Sherlock Holmes is alive?”  I hoped he did not notice how my fingers were ready to press the sequence on my mobile that was designated for such an event.

With a face that looked both wistful and amused, John responded, “No, but if anyone could fake his own death, it’d be him, wouldn’t it?”  He sighed.  “I just keep seeing him, you know?  Different clothes, different hair, but him.  Just yesterday, outside this surgery, in fact.  Keeps me feeling like I should be waiting for him to return.“ 

The doctor seemed lost in thought for a few moments, and I took advantage of his distraction to hit the sequence of numbers that had been programmed for such recklessness.  Selfish prat of a man.

John shook his head, as if shaking off clinging memories.  “Anyways, let’s get this over with, shall we?”

“In short, Sherlock Holmes left all of his assets to you.”

“What?”  John seemed startled.

I continued.  “There are only two restrictions on how you can use the assets.”

“No, wait.” 

I forged on.  “The money and personal property are yours to do with as you wish.  The two restrictions are…”

“Please, stop.”

I looked the doctor, who seemed truly distressed.  I allowed myself a crack in my professional demeanor and called him by his first name.  “John, just let me finish, and then you can ask questions.  Okay?”

He clutched the armrests of his chair to calm himself, then gave me a curt nod.

“As I was saying, the two restrictions are as follows.  One, if you decide to sell the violin, please allow Mycroft Holmes to set up the auction.”

At this, John smiled slightly.  “That screechy thing is worth something.  I knew it.”

I felt relieved by the interruption.  John seemed more himself.  I worried that the next restriction would change that.  “Two, the cottage in Sussex is not to be sold.  Even if you do not utilize it, the cottage is to be passed on to your heirs with the same restriction, in perpetuity.  There is a trust that will cover the maintenance costs, and my employer took it upon himself to set up those arrangements already.”

His voice was shaky. “The cottage?  There is actually a cottage in Sussex?”  His left hand trembled as he placed it over his mouth.

I did not know how to respond to that.  I sat quietly and waited for any follow-up questions.  Finally, John asked, “When did he make this will?”

I looked at the papers in front of me.  “January of last year.”

“And when did he purchase the cottage in Sussex?”

Once again.  “January of last year.”

John buried his face in his hands, and I heard him murmur something that sounded like “Yes, you are.”

Our surveillance had shown continuous improvement in Doctor Watson’s emotional state.  I did not like being the cause of a setback.  In order to keep him from spiraling deeper, I drew his attention back to the matter at hand.

“There is paperwork to be signed.  My employer set up two forms.  One, for you to transfer the assets into your accounts, which is the option my employer and obviously Sherlock hoped you would choose.  The second set of documents will still leave all of the assets in your name, but with my employer as manager.  The funds themselves will not be touched.”

“Second option, please, “ said John, hollowly.

I placed the documents in front of him, along with a pen.  “You are aware that Mrs. Hudson is receiving financial support from my employer.”

“Yes, “ said John.  “She claimed it was compensation for putting up with his brother.”  A tiny glimpse of a smile.

I smiled back.  “She deserves it, don’t you think?”

“God, yes.”  He pushed the signed papers back towards me.

The tension having dissipated, I placed the documents in my briefcase and rose from my chair.  John walked me to the door, where I paused with one more question.  “I know that Sherlock’s belongings are still at 221B Baker Street.  Did you take anything of his with you when you moved?”

“Just Billy.”

“Billy?”

John grinned at me.  “The skull.”

***

Breaking and entering was so boring.  Especially when the office of John’s therapist had such pathetic security measures.

Dealing with the man who had followed me to and from the therapist’s office?  That was much more interesting.  And satisfying.

***

I walked into the popular bistro where John sat with Mary Morstan.  We had reason to believe that John was going to propose this night.  But I was not there for the purpose of changing his mind.  I was on a different mission.

I saw John’s eyes widen as I approached.  It had been eighteen months since our last encounter.  Mary noted his distraction and glanced over her shoulder as I approached their table from behind her.  John always sat where he had a clear view of the entrance. 

I paused at their table and looked directly at Mary.  “Good evening, Doctor Morstan.  I’m sorry for the interruption.”

Turning to John.  “Good evening, Doctor Watson.  Mr. Holmes requires your assistance.  You are to come with me.”

“John, who is this?” asked Mary.

“One of Mycroft’s,” answered John with a justifiably bitter edge to his voice.  Still, it saddened me to hear it.  He looked me with a challenge in his eyes.  “And why should I assist Mr. Holmes?”

“Please, Doctor Watson, Mr. Holmes requires your assistance.  A car is waiting for you.”  I aimed a fake, yet professional smile towards Mary.  “Another car will take you home.”

“Nope, not going to happen,” said John.

I shifted my feet slightly, in a calculated maneuver to let John know that I would prefer that he not make a scene in the crowded restaurant.  “Mr. Holmes knew that you might desist.  Therefore, I was sent with a question to ask you.  If you give me the correct response, I’ll tell you all you need to know.”

John squared his jaw, then nodded once.

I lowered my voice, focusing on the intonation of his name.  “John, do you know what happened to the giant rat of Sumatra?”

He gasped, a combination of fear and hope rippling across his face. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, then barely whispered, “That is a story for which the world is not yet prepared.”

I knelt by the table, close enough to touch his hand and force him to meet my gaze.  “It’s a trick.  It’s just a magic trick.”  I smiled, a genuine one this time.

“Jesus.  I can’t…” John stuttered, grasping my hand in both of his.  “How do you know that?”

“Because it was just a magic trick, and now the world is prepared to hear the story.  But he requires your assistance first.”

“Mr. Holmes requires my assistance… Mr. Holmes…”

John Watson looked at me with wonder.  I slightly tilted my head in Mary’s direction, reminding him that his girlfriend was still there. 

“Mary, I’m so sorry, I must go.” He stood up and stepped around to touch Mary’s face.  “I can’t explain, but I must go.” He kissed her cheek chastely.  “I’m so sorry, really.”  John walked out of the restaurant without a second look behind him.

I looked at Mary Morstan, a perfectly good woman who would no doubt hear the real story soon enough.  “Doctor Morstan, I cannot tell you what is going on and you must not mention anything that’s happened this evening to anyone, even family.”

“Can you tell me anything at all?”

 I placed enough money to cover their meal on the table and gestured that she should follow me.  “Doctor Watson will always choose Mr. Holmes.”  I smiled.  “Always.”

 


	11. The Landlady

Martha Hudson kept two bottles of champagne in her refrigerator at all times.  At first, she just kept the one, but then there was the night when she and Mrs. Turner decided to indulge in some bubbly while watching _X-Factor_ and talking about their tenants.  After that, a backup bottle was always on hand.  Because Mrs. Hudson had lived a long time and knew one day that champagne would be needed in 221B Baker Street.

Martha Hudson knew she had to have the champagne cold and ready for the day her boys realized what they meant to each other.

***

The sleek black car pulled up to 221 Baker Street as it had so many times before, but this time Mycroft Holmes was there to visit Mrs. Hudson.  She greeted him warmly at the door.

“Mycroft, thank you so much for dropping by.  Care for some tea?”

Mycroft settled into an overstuffed chair and did not speak as Mrs. Hudson prepared their tea.  She handed him a cup, and he helped himself to milk and sugar from the service.  Then Martha broke the silence.

“You do realize that John doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Yes.”

She sat down, absently stirring sugar into her cup.  “After the funeral, he barely could come back to the flat.  I think most of this things are still here.”

“Yes.”

Martha smiled thinly. “I know that you offered to pay John’s rent while he was here, but he’s gone now.  He and Sherlock were paid up through the end of the month, so I still have a week to start preparing the flat for new tenants.”

Mycroft sipped his tea.

“I’ve already packed up some of Sherlock’s belongings.  I’ve started on his experiments and clothes and so on.  What would you like me to do with them?”

Mycroft set his cup on the table and cocked an eyebrow at Mrs. Hudson.  “Didn’t John want any of Sherlock’s things?”

She let out a trembly sigh.  “That poor man.  I don’t know if he took anything of Sherlock’s.  He didn’t even take all of his own things.  Last time we spoke, John said he wouldn’t be coming back.” 

“I will continue to honor the terms of their lease and pay rent on the flat, Mrs. Hudson.  Please leave their belongings as they are.”

Martha gasped.  “But why would you do that?”

Sadness drifted into Mycroft’s eyes.  “Sentiment.”

***

Six months later, Martha Hudson received a letter from Mycroft Holmes stating that he wanted to renew the lease on 221B Baker Street in his brother’s name for another six months.  He also requested her permission to continue to monitor her home for security purposes.  Then she started a routine of entering her boys’ flat and cleaning one room each day.  After all, if Mycroft Holmes needed the illusion of the flat being ready for his brother’s return from the dead, who was she to deny him?

***

Mycroft sat down at one end of the sofa and looked around the homely sitting room of Mrs. Hudson’s flat.  Floral prints and dusty hardwood floors were a stark contrast to his own living quarters, but this place still felt like a home.  He did not really understand his own motives for extending the lease in person this time, but he had found himself giving the Baker Street address to his driver without a second thought.  Mrs. Hudson’s eyes lit up when he knocked on her door, and Mycroft had the feeling that his visit was not entirely unexpected.

This time, tea cakes and custard creams were sitting on the tea service.  Mycroft could tell that Mrs. Hudson was happy to have the opportunity to take care of someone, and he felt an unexpected rush of affection for the woman.

“You know,“ he began softly as he stirred his tea, “I think Sherlock was happier here than any other time in his adult life.”

Martha smiled.  “He did seem happy, well, until…”

Mycroft looked down at his teacup.  “You and John were his real family.”

Mrs. Hudson got up from her chair and sat by Mycroft on the sofa.  She patted his knee.  “He knew you cared.  Brothers sometimes don’t get on, but that doesn’t mean they don’t love each other.”

A bit of the Holmes’ arrogance showed itself.  “I can assure you, Mrs. Hudson, that it is far more complicated than that.”

“Isn’t it always?”  She gave him an understanding look.

Mycroft reached for one of the tea cakes.  “I’d like to extend the lease on 221B for three more months.”  He bit into his cake, and his eyes opened wide.  “This is really quite good.”

“Why?  Sherlock isn’t coming back, and neither is John.”

Mrs. Hudson was looking at Mycroft with keen eyes.  He started to wonder what she saw.  “I did not do enough to thank you for all of the care you gave my dear brother.  This way, you can keep your income without the inconvenience of tenants. Consider this to be gratitude for the gunshots in the wall and obnoxious violin playing.”  He nibbled on a custard cream.

“These snacks were Sherlock’s favorites, you know.”  Mrs. Hudson smiled reminiscently.  “Whenever John would nag him too much about eating, Sherlock would come down here and sneak biscuits and cakes to give the appearance that he could go without food even longer.”

Mycroft smiled at Mrs. Hudson, true affection showing through this time. “That sounds like Sherlock.”

Martha’s eyes grew bright with tears, even though she was still smiling.  “What Sherlock never knew is that John bought the sweets.  Oh, he could tell better than anyone when Sherlock needed to eat.  He also knew that eating a full meal during a case would never happen.  But Sherlock had a sweet tooth, and John wasn’t afraid to exploit it, so he kept a stash of goodies down here.  That dear man knew just what to say to push Sherlock’s buttons, then he’d stomp out of the room in a fake huff.  Next I’d hear my bead curtain rustle and Sherlock would end up leaving crumbs all over my kitchen.”  A tear fell down her right cheek.  “John took such good care of Sherlock.  It’s tearing him apart that he couldn’t save him.”

Not for the first time, Mycroft Holmes wanted to give John Watson a knighthood.  And the truth he deserved.

“Nothing John could have said would have stopped Sherlock from…” pause “…doing what he felt needed to be done.”  Another pause.  “You do know that Sherlock wasn’t a fake, right?”

“Of course, Mycroft Holmes. I have never doubted your brother, not for an instant!” said Mrs. Hudson, in an admonishing tone.

Mycroft made a decision.  He leaned towards Mrs. Hudson.  “I have my best operative hunting down the rest of Moriarty’s organization.  He’s in London right now.”  He looked her directly in the eye. “May I bring him some of these cakes and creams?”

***

Three months later, Martha Hudson received another request for a lease extension and a care package of biscuits.  She called John Watson to check up on him, and to let him know that Mycroft was extending the lease again and still investigating Moriarty’s organization. She also asked which bakery sold Sherlock’s favorites. 

***

The next time Mrs. Hudson heard from Mycroft Holmes, it was a phone call.

“What is she like?”

“Who, dear?”

“Mary Morstan.  I know that you met her and John for tea yesterday.”

“Oh, she’s lovely.  The two of them get on quite well together.”  Mrs. Hudson said warmly.  Then she asked, “Don’t you know all this from your surveillance?”

“She’s American, even affiliated with their government.  Watching her would be deemed inappropriate by my counterparts across the pond.”

Mrs. Hudson could almost hear Mycroft’s teeth gritting together and had to stifle a laugh.  “But her background check?” she teased.

“Passed with flying colors, I assure you.  Otherwise, she’d already be out of our dear doctor’s life.”

Mrs. Hudson knew it was wrong, but she was so very pleased with Mycroft Holmes.

***

Not long after John Watson moved in with Mary Morstan, Mycroft sat across from Mrs. Hudson at teatime.  He displayed an atypical hesitation and said, “Feel free to tell me that this is none of my business, and forgive me for being indelicate.”

“Ask away, dear.”

Mycroft worried a biscuit between his fingers.  “Do you know.. Did they… Had they ever…Were Sherlock and John together?”

“You mean Mister ‘Not gay, but I’ll ditch my girlfriend for you without a second thought’ and Mister ‘Married to my work, but I’ll curl up with you on the couch and watch Bond movies to make you happy’?”

Mycroft looked piercingly at Mrs. Hudson, who finished her thought. “No, as far as I know, they were not in a romantic or sexual relationship.”  She smiled fondly. “But I’d never seen two people more completely devoted to each other.”

He ate the biscuit before it completely crumbled away.  “Thank you for telling me that.”

“Why do you ask now?”

Mycroft Holmes sounded uncertain.  “I’m trying to understand what my brother lost on the day he jumped.”

Mrs. Hudson reached over and patted his hand.  “Oh, sweetie, that’s simple.  He and John both lost the most important person in their lives.”

***

Martha worried the hem of her skirt.  The Mycroft Holmes sitting on the sofa across from her was not a man she recognized.  Not even the man she’d seen a mere two weeks before.  His hair was disheveled, and there was stubble along his jaw.  He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and he clutched his teacup like a lifeline.

“Mycroft, dear, what’s wrong?”

His voice was weak as he replied, “My operative has missed his last two check-ins.”

He left not long after that.  A few minutes later, Mrs. Hudson placed a phone call.  “John, dear, I know it’s last minute, but would you meet me for tea today?  Anywhere you like.  What’s that?  Oh, I’m alright, it’s just… well… the memories are strong today. It’s selfish of me to ask this of you, but I feel like I’m losing Sherlock all over again.”

***

Two months later, Mycroft sent his assistant to Baker Street.  After Mrs. Hudson supplied the young woman with a care package of custard creams and cakes and a one-month lease agreement, she walked up the stairs to the flat.  She opened up the windows to air out the place.  She spent her afternoon dusting and sweeping, mopping the lino, and putting fresh sheets on the beds.  She draped Sherlock’s favorite dressing gown over the edge of his bed and brought up fresh toothbrushes to the bathroom.  She fluffed the Union Jack pillow on John’s chair.  She supplied the kitchen with tea and biscuits, beans and bread.

Yes, Martha Hudson had lived a long time, and she understood more than most expected.  She kept two bottles ready for the day that champagne would be needed in 221B Baker Street.

Martha Hudson knew she had to have the champagne cold and ready for the day her boys came home.

 


End file.
